#ROW80 – A SMALL DEATH IN TAMPA (NO APOLOGIES TO THOMAS MANN; THAT WOULD BE CREEPY)

One of my constant companions in the latter part of my adventurous life, gave up the ghost. Turned up his toes, went as far as he could and died in my arms last night. It was to be expected, because he had been ridden and ridden hard these last five-and-a-half years. He will certainly be missed, because there was such an intimacy between us and we shared so much together; laughter, misery, anger and fun.

 "What or whom could she be talking about?"

Edward Elgar's Enigma Variations, played by the St. Petersburg Orchestra (once the Leningrad Symphony, conducted by one of my favorite people, EVER, Yuri Temirkanov*

To be honest, I'm surprised he lasted this long, with all the abuse and pounding and dropping and losing he forebore over the course of his (I think, I haven't checked his warranty) long life, but I do believe the average life-span is about two years and I, in my usual manner, not tending to coddle electronics, any more than I am myself – beyond routine maintenance care – have done more than my share of harm, although he has proven himself time and time again, that he is able to be resurrected from the dead. I am, after all a “Practitioner of the Dark Arts”. But my best and most clever fix-its from my bag of spel-er, tricks, turned out to be futile. Thus, an old friend must be laid to rest.

His partner lives on happily – Ms. Wireless Mouse, mainly because she has no moving parts – I can just hear my male readers “so like a woman”, but I do tend to anthropomorphize my computers and their peripherals and my viola. So, sue me. My viola is a male, and I did not choose the gender, nor his name. My 6-core AMD processor is not a female, although my dual-core is. I just know this, weird. The other “babies” in the house, are either trans-gender (because I run virtual machines of varying types), or haven't made enough of an impact on my life to regard them as anything other than, “them”. I just hope “they” don't rise up some day and take over the house.

Logitech Mouse. Plain and simple. I've seen these gaming mice that look like tanks, with 50 buttons on each side. Yikes!

Anyway, that was a huge and scary digression. My wireless keyboard died and no amount of changing batteries, cleaning, pairing, un-pairing would fix him. I'm really sorry to lose him, because he fit like a nicely well-worn glove. There are indentations in the keys from the millions of keystrokes I've bashed on each letter over the years, and an interesting thing; the keys on the left-hand side are more indented and beaten than those on the right, although I write with my right hand, I do nearly everything else with my left. My mom was left-handed, and confusion reigned when it came to using tools as simple as scissors in our house, because she was militantly left-handed. Her teachers tried to force her to use her right-hand and she quit talking for 3 weeks.

So, when they gave up on that and she resumed using her left-hand, and as an adult, she ordered every version of right-handed anything, in the left-handed version, and just threw it in with the rest of the utensils. It gave my Daddy fits, but I adjusted and am perfectly comfortable with either/or.

courtesy:www.lefthandedworld.com                                            

This pretty much just led to twice as much junk in the junk drawer, and if I were in a hurry, a box-cutter would usually do the trick. I think they work in both hands.

It doesn't matter which hand I write with now, anyway because with my essential tremor, either hand is illegible. I seldom hand-write anything but my name; it's that bad. But again, I'm running up a different alley, than from where I started.

You can see the indentations and how the letters have been rubbed off on some keys. I'm willing to bet there are many of you out there, who have keyboards that look at LEAST this bad!

My left hand is the hand that holds some power for playing the viola, and it's an odd kind of power. It has to be done delicately, with the fingers barely above the string. As you read the notes, the corresponding finger should just kiss the string in fast passage work, while you coordinate it with the bow-arm.

What non-string players don't understand is the bow-arm is the hardest thing to learn. There are times you have to exert raw power through the use of pronation – rotation of the wrist, the kind boxers use, to draw the sound from the string, but this all works in concert with the flexibility and balance of your fingers, the angle of your elbow, and the weight of your shoulder. If any one of these is not correct, you're not going to produce a very nice sound.

I figured since we're talking about violas, bows, left-hands and right-hands, you should see some. The viola is "Wolf" named by his luthier in Michigan, when he was appraised and insured. He was made by Guidantus Florenus and is an Italian Aristocrat, but a poor cousin of the Cremonese, as he is from Bologna. The bow is German and modern, a Grunke and weighs in at a hefty 74 grams, the heaviest viola bow available. It was made by an aircraft engineer, as many bows are, due to their wing-like structure. Built to be tough and durable, it is well-balanced and very responsive. The hands are mine. 

Same thing with the left hand. In slow passage work, this is when you want to lean into the string, and work up that nice vibrato, that can be increased or decreased at will to heighten or lessen the intensity of the passage you are playing. The “Vocalise” by Rachmaninoff is a wonderful exercise for this and for developing long, slow, robust bow movement, pressure and changes.

Anyway, enough yammering about playing Wolf. This is in homage to an old and dearly departed friend. Mr. keyboard. (I'm so ashamed I didn't name you... nah) You will be missed. I am keeping your husk around, much like a cryogenic-type thing, mebbe you'll just pop back into life. Or not. I guess I better take those fresh new batteries out of you and save them for a new, wireless keyboard, when I get the chance to buy one. In the meantime, I'll use this dumb, old corded one that has been lying around the house. I already hate it. Take care old friend. May your CTRL + ALT + DEL keys be ever useful wherever you are!

_____

* During a rehearsal break at Meadow Brook, MI, Maestro Temirkanov, who has very little English and I had a "conversation" in my horrible Russian. He insisted that I was Polish. I explained that I was 100% Scottish and had never set foot in Poland. I did tell him however, that what he was probably hearing was my botched-up Spanish accent overlaid in my Russian. We had a good laugh over that. He was amazing to work with!

GOALS: Have written another section of “Nebraska Creepers” and am creeping ever-onward.

#ROW80 1ST QTR POST 11 – NOT A CHECK IN, MORE OF A TUNE-IN

Today, I was listening to a hilarious song on You Tube called “Shoes” by somebody I never heard of, named Kelly. A friend of mine, Bryan, directed me to this song with no better recommendation than this on Facebook: “I was pulling into the parking lot of work, and this guy pulls in next to me with his windows down and the song “Shoes” blaring full blast, right when the guy screams “Fuck You!” It made my day!” Well, it made my day, too.

Bryan, is me, 37 years ago. We are so much alike it’s scary. So, with no more to go on, I race over to You Tube and scare me up some “Shoes” songs. It turns out it’s pretty funny and the “Fuck you!” part is, well, loud. After I listen to that, I see the Sibelius Violin Concerto, played Maxim Vengerov with the Chicago Symphony. This is probably one of my favorite violin concertos ever, although I do love the Prokofiev Violin Concertos and the Shostakovich Violin Concertos as well. Less so, the Tchaikovsky and the Mendelssohn Concertos. The Beethoven and Brahms violin concertos are in a separate category for different reasons, because, Ludwig and Johannes.

Mozart, no. Not at all. Garbage. Impossible to play, impossible to access emotionally. Just my opinion. One night I had to sit through a performance of a very-well known violinist’s rendition (I was actually in the audience, a sort of bus-man’s holiday, for a change) of Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 5. I was practically homicidal by the end. This violinist, who is technically perfect, has one speed for vibrato; “on.” This type of mechanical, Suzuki-arm vibrato is just impossible to vary. You cannot intensify it to impart passion, you cannot slow it down, you cannot speed it up. You can turn it off, with little success. I’d rather hear “3 Blind Mice” played on a car horn.

I once had a stand partner who had been taught this kind of fucked-up vibrato. We were playing a piece by Lloyd-Webber, a suite from “Cats” and the conductor wanted the last measure, which was just reduced strings pianissimo to use no vibrato, AT ALL. Done right, it is very eerie and effective. This was a pick-up orchestra, kind of thrown together at the last minute, filthy lucre and all that. My stand partner ended up playing “air viola;” he couldn’t stop that damn arm-vibrato. Kudos though, that’s a professional. If you can’t make it sound good, at least make it look good.

I'm not proud; I played a lot of this shit along with Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, et al. We're all whores.

I had the great good fortune of having tiny hands, I guess. I had to learn to crawl around on the fingerboard, although my viola is small. I use a combination, finger and wrist vibrato, which makes it easy for me to run up and down the fingerboard. I learned early on, too, that the closer I keep my fingers to the fingerboard, the faster I can play. There’s nothing stupider than being ½ beat behind in Tchaikovsky's "Marche Slave” during the exciting part. 

I was the Russian still buckling on my saber, while the Turks were overrunning the ramparts! I tried not to do that again. Instead, I developed what was politely called "premature articulation." Fatal in a man, more overlooked in women green-as-grass violists, this one is easily fixed. After having to watch conductors mouth "where's the fire," at me during the exciting parts (and yes, we really do LOOK at the conductors) I finally, and definitively, developed the fine art of listening and timing, using a metronome; the beat does go on.

When I get up into the high, high positions, which sound neato-keeno on Wolf, I have to use a combination of arm-wrist-finger vibrato which is very cool. Believe it or not, it took 2 coaches here in Florida to explain the mechanics to me. Along with a Professor of Cello, we were all able to somehow scrape together some semblance of a violist.

I kid, but I learned something along the way and it’s this; we’re all basically self-taught. My friend Kathy confirmed it and I've heard it time and again. I watched wonderful violinists. Joseph Silverstein has the bow arm to emulate. Maxim Vengerov has a left hand that is picture perfect. His bow arm is stiff to me and he has a tendency to play a bit too “glassily.” At times, he’s on the verge of almost losing control of his bow, or so it sounds; most great fiddlers sound that way. We emulate what we like and craft what we want.

At the end of the day, it’s a very personal thing. I have a tiny frame, but I have a big sound, because of my 72-gram bow, which is the heaviest of viola bows. It’s a German bow, made by Richard Grunke. It’s a nice bow and weighted so that I can skip around on the strings and play spiccato (which, just between us? Is probably my worst talent. Let’s NOT play “Midsummer Night’s Dream” by Mendelssohn at my next audition, m’kay? Let’s play Shostakovich’s 5^th Symphony. And Screw Mozart! Mozart blows dog wenuses)

Being self-taught means the teaching never stops. After I spent lots of quality time with my teachers, who became my coaches, who became my colleagues, who became my friends, a certain mind-set employed and then I became even more hard-wired. I think that this is true for everyone who has been down this path. I dissect everything; not everything is found wanting, but some things are, not to their detriment necessarily. There's plenty to enjoy.

My friends and colleagues who have trod this path, have their own stories and their own journeys. They may not have the same outlook and obsessions that pertain to me, but we all understand one another. What I’m trying to say, is that I cannot look at a video of musicians or anyone playing without, at some level dissecting it. I certainly do enjoy it, but there’s this overarching (background only) part of me that is saying, “hmm, tempo is a bit off.” Bum-ba-da-dum-dum. “God, I hate Barenboim’s interpretation, he should have stuck to the piano, fuck his conduction.” Bum-da-da-bum-bum. “hmm, it sounds as if Vengerov was a bit out of tune on those harmonics; could be my ears.”

Maxim Vengerov

That kind of shit is just part of the package. I get that; for me to get the “chills and goosebumps,” it has to be “found” music. Something I stumble across. My brain has to be ambushed. This is still pleasurable, but I pick it all apart. With the exception of Beethoven. Well, that’s not entirely true. I get an immense amount of pleasure out of listening to music as I’m dissecting it. It better be pretty good, though. If it isn’t, I’m gone.

Mozart? Nada, bupkus, zippo. I know; I’m beating a dead horse; lemme illustrate. I love to watch the show “Angel” on Hulu+ and I really get a kick out of the character, Spike. Spike shows up in one of the 1^st season’s episodes, “In the Dark,” and turns Angel over to a torturer named Marcus, to get the location of the ring of Amarra that will allow vampires to walk around in the daylight. Well, while Marcus is working on Angel, he’s playing Mozart’s 41^st Symphony. It’s just so goddamned annoying. At one point, in what is an otherwise very good, suspenseful and funny episode, Spike mistakenly refers to the “Brahms music.” Marcus tells him it's Mozart's Symphony 41.

Ah, Spike, Ya had me goin' there fer a moment, laddie, but ye hae nary a brain in that pretty head or an ear. Twon't work a'tall! I can't abide havin' ye scamperin' aboot like th't, aight?

I must interject here, I just love me some goddamn Spike, way more than Angel, who’s pretty dishy. Angel’s just trying to be good and redeem himself and while I love that and I see grace in that concept. Here's Spike and he just couldn’t give a shit. Plus, he’s hilarious. But, Jiminy Christmas! Spike! You LIVED through the flippin’ classical era. You were around when Mozart was top-40! And you were STILL around when Brahms was hitting the charts. What the Fuck? Mozart is eons way different than freaking Johannes Brahms. Brahms is the precursor to the 2^nd Viennese School. Mahler and Alban Berg. Hello? Arnold Schoenberg? 12-tone music? Are you fucking tone-deaf? 

Mozart is “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat!” for God’s Sake. Brahms is “In A Gadda Da Vida!” Fuck! You probably think Justin Bieber is music for the ages and the Beatles were a passing fad! This will not do! I have to tell you, alas! I actually ditched a guy once because he was tone-deaf Yep, he was perfect, or so my mom said. He had money, was an attorney, but damn! That man couldn't carry a tune in a suitcase! I sent him on his way. So, you might want to brush up on your musicological whatsis, and do some ear-training for God's sake, Spike, m'kay?

Well, now that I’ve worn Spike out, we can look forward to the Stupor Bowl tomorrow. I hope Guy Who WasKnocked Down and Embarrassed doesn’t have a repeat performance and there are no copycats. JC and I are going to veg out and hope somebody wins.

#ROW80 1ST QTR POST 8 – WEDNESDAY CHECK IN, OR WHEN IS A POST NOT A POST?

I’m just leaving it at that. I always try to come up with some really snazzy title to fit the topic, or so I tell myself. I do so enjoy quality, however I enjoy laziness more, and if a great title doesn’t hit in a fit of lightning? (a fit of metaphor? ugh) then, I go with generic.

Thanks and kudos to Amy Kennedy. Until yesterday, in my confuse-a-what style, I was unaware that she was one of our ROW80 sponsors, this go round; for that she deserves a huge WOT? and her favorite brand of treat many times over, along with Alberta Ross, who is snow-bound in Hell somewhere. We must save her! Treats for her, as well as my thanks.  I must also inform Amy that I flunked Primary Numbers Class along with Ancient Times; I haven’t been around since 2^nd Quarter 2012 Row80, but 3^rd Quarter.

Anyway, I’ve stated this before. I have enough written material from my life and times to publish an individual e-book, or indie? Whatever the terminology may be. I haven’t been word-wrangling for very long (gee, how could anyone tell?) and everyone has been amazingly wonderful. I thought writers would be rather like (looks around and breaks into a whisper) “professional musicians.” They can be terrible to one another and breaking into different geographical markets is almost impossible, unless you’re really determined. Anyway, I’m “retired,” by disability and need to have something to do to stay out of jail.

So, I landed here! Andi-Roo at the TheWorld4Realz suggested this to me. I was writing but was totally unfocused (not that I’m really any more so, now, but I’m a better writer) and wasn’t sure where, or what to do, from where I was then. She and I have a solid connection and have understood one another from our beginning exchanges and she suggested that I hop over to this “Round of Words in 80 Days.” I did and here we are!

I’m happy to be here and thanks to all you! I’ve driven several people to distraction: Kait Nolan and Sonia G. Medeiros, to name two. Since I don’t see well at all, I miss lots of details. Like James Thurber, I just put my own “legally blind” (or bland) interpretation on it. Per James, it “only enriches the confusion.” Be warned, I love confusion and find it hilarious and if I get to be too big a pain in the ass, tell me to knock it off!

I do know that I am probably not a fiction writer, nor do I believe that I have a novel in me anywhere. Maybe I just haven’t figured out those processes yet. I wrote a stunning 1673 words in NaNoWriMo, which turned into my NaNoWriLe and now, the website is nagging me, no, they’re playing to my sense of shame, like I abandoned some baby animal or some kind of step-headed bald child. Oops, I just started thinking about the post I’m doing tomorrow for P.A.N.D.A, with my "Parkinson's Disease or non-Parkinson's Disease, THAT is the question" *eye roll.* 

Now, with extra confuse-a-what. Thursday will be like Wacky Wednesday, only Bicycle. And more Lincoln-Tigers. 

That’s http://www.parkingsonpanda.org. So, I’ma going to be busy, tomorrow but back here on Friday, right @YumaBev?

#ROW80 1ST QUARTER POST 4 – SUNDAY CHECK IN

O Hai!

Kind of looks like the inside of my head, except for the plastic guy. Okay, and except for all of the My Little Ponys. I think we should change "Sephiroth" to "Cthulhu" or "Zamorak," if "Cthulhu" isn't around. Did you ever notice how blasted hard it is to type "Cthulhu," and why in the Hell

can't we have a "Cthulhu" type quest in Runescape? Who do we have to pay off? Jagex? The Lovecraftian Archive?

  

So, what do I have to show for myself? I’m on cruise-control, so not much, this week. Another week older and a-deeper in debt, as the saying goes. I am in this weird kind of stasis, where one minute, I want to go like a bat out of hell, and then I am just fatigued beyond all reason the next minute. I can’t really concentrate very well when I’m in this state.

I had a bout of dementia when my sugar dropped the other night like I’ve never had before. And good ‘ol JC, being my wonderful man, talked me through it. When this happens, I know it’s coming and I just have to ride it like a rocket ship. Stuff starts seeming either too close, or this time everything was way far away and itty-bitty and had sped up. Sometimes, things slow down, and time drags. When this first happened, I had a psychotic break; it’s when I first manifested tremors that were noticeable, last March. But, hey! It’s all in my head; I’m just bipolar.

These “spells” last about 10 to 20 minutes and I remember them. They’re generally like Whee! Happy fun time! Except sometimes, I think I’m going to see God and I’m not so sure that I’m all ready to go, if you get my drift. But, everything starts making a kind of sense and I’m so damned hard-wired, that the cat, who is a chimera cat (ours is not QUITE as dramatic as Venus, but is similar)  and has the same colors and patterns as the rice cakes’ packaging and crackers’ packaging in my pantry, and the clock is always 4 minutes to midnight. I’m always watching “Numb3rs” on Hulu+ but sometimes, John Locke from “Lost” is on “Numb3rs” or Charlie Eppes from “Numb3rs” is on “Lost” and the dish towels are the same color as the uniforms of the football players on the TV that JC is watching and the jewels on “Bejeweled” always form a match 3 endlessly, until the sugar kicks in, and everything goes back to normal.  

Unless of course, there is ONE thing that is different. Then, I become immediately confused and don’t know what to do and all hell breaks loose. Not really, I just don’t know what to do and I can get panicked. That hasn’t happened in a while. The great thing is, I know if I eat something with sugar, I’ll be okay pretty quickly, but this is so exhausting. I’m not a diabetic, but this can’t be good for a body. My pulse races; my heart rate has gone as high as 120 and is high anyway. I’m lucky my cholesterol and blood pressure are low. I don’t want to start ranting about the medical community; what good is that going to do?

Governor Rick Scott - Beelzebub Party

"The Church Lady" from "SNL" would love this...

I do have one bit of lovely news. Florida Governor Rick Scott (R) is going to be the recipient of a gala jamboree-type rally being held by the Florida Association of Satanists, as they are named and in front of the Governor’s residence! No word on whether or not Twinkle-Toes is going to attend. I hope my invite is in the mail and I know; this is just too delicious for words! Maybe Governor Sparkle can sprout him some horns and hooves, eh? No, he already had them surgically removed; I’m confused. I just love the fact that there is a group of kooks out there who will embrace his charming personage. Maybe ol’ Scratch is collecting his debt early, hmm? 

Well, Microsoft bitches, it’s on. Blogger is still fucked up. Only it’s like a bad electrical problem in the wiring of my house, or maybe it's gremlins. It sure as hell isn't evil and it isn't mediocre on the best of days My work around is this: quit stalking me all over the fucking internet and I will quit telling everyone about what shitty software you write and foist on the world. You and I know that you write and push crap and that goes for all of your hardware “partnerships” and I oh wait, I lied. I don’t want your “15 minutes of  free tech support.” Don’t insult me. I shit better code than you ever did with a hangover when I was in school, writing QuickBasic. The logic hasn't changed, just your stupid bloated insecure crappy-ass bullshit. Your partners-in-crime, Oracle and Java with their beans got their asses in trouble. It's enough I use your shit. Quit bothering me on every goddamned website I visit. Go haunt someone who doesn't know their asses from their elbows and leave me the hell alone. Write a slimmed-down OS with no dancing baloney and shiny shit and I might actually write some apps.

I’m having too much fun with my new merry band of complainers. Some of us use IE (I don't even have IE on my system; that's some insecure shit right there,) some use FF, some use Chrome, we all use Blogger, which is probably a big mistake, right there. I started out all by myself, then I got like 45 new friends! I was so excited! Yay! And we were all bitching about the same thing… kind of. But, the point is, there are lots of random outbursts and asides. I notice the Blogger wizards are just as clueless as the people there to get help, so I seem to have found a new source of entertainment! Yay.

This week will probably see more cruise control, with a post about friendship and what it means. It turns out it means what we’re willing to invest in our lives. So, what does life mean to us? Rhetoric, I know. But I wrote lots of rhetoric in college and won awards for my writing. I never won awards for rhetorical living, though. Now, I’m trying to put all of the writing about into doing; it is not as easy as it sounds. 

#ROW80 POST 19 – MA DEAREST

What a pair; Ma looks drunk and I look stoned; yes, I'm wearing opera gloves... on the viola.

It has been some time since I’ve written just a pure rant-style post, and now that I’ve finished it, this isn’t it. So, the rest of this paragraph is pure bullshit. Except for the last 11 sentences. The primary reason, is that it is harder for me to just punch it right up into rant-gear. My typing speed has slowed somewhat and I no longer type at the speed of thought. That sucks. I also use the backspace key far more often and that is a huge fucking pain in the ass, because my fingers are getting stiffer. I make more typos because my brain is in scramble mode; an example of this: “stiffer” was originally “stigger.” Time to turn on auto-correct, I guess. I’ve never used, it. Handy-capable! Shit; Carlin was right. Or This, which I can’t add to auto-correct; imagine the chaos. Maybe I’ll do it anyway; I’m getting my hate on.

This past few months have been spell-bindingly (Binders full?) full of hate. It has run the gamut from A to Z and to imaginary letters, rather like math where you plot imaginary numbers; -i , -25, and so on. But, through our political discourse, we have discovered that in the 21^st century, it is still open season on people who are “other.” Yes, you can just bully the living daylights out of anyone who is “different,” than you and get away with you. In most cases, no one knows, because the bully-ee, goes off and quietly wonders what their particular lack is and then, has a nervous breakdown. Some end up in mental institutions, some in therapy. Hopefully, these folks get the help they need.

What victims of bullying REALLY need is affirmation that the bully-er is a giant suckhole of mean, cruelty and bag of dicks, and the victims also need to know that they are NOT alone. There is someone who will hold their hand and talk to them and assure them, that yes, they are fine, decent people. They are people who enrich the souls around them and who really mean something to the people in their lives, even if those people are a half a world away.

People are bullied for all sorts of reasons. If you haven’t seen this video by the anchor woman Jennifer Livingston, you should. She handles a very cruel email from a viewer beautifully and answers some questions that have been raised regarding how cruel bullying is and what can be done. You can view it here.  

Bullying has been around for a long time. When I was a kid, I was fresh meat for bullies. I have red hair. I wore glasses and carried a violin case. Bully trifecta, right there. I wore my hair in braids. Every day, I came home from school, glasses scratched or busted, ribbons yanked out of my hair, bloody nose and bloody knuckles. I usually had skinned knees and was filthy from rolling around in the playground.

My father, ever the corny historian, must have been reading some medieval text on monarchies, or something. He said to me once, after some spectacular battle I’d had, “I dub thee, Red Knees Wallace,” an appellation I wore for years. One teacher, in exasperation, yanked one of the ribbons from my hair, when I punched a boy in the nose. She yelled in my face, “Your mother put this in your hair, so you’d act like a girl! Be one!” I was probably thinking, “Bullshit, this is camouflage.” I punched her in the nose.

I can’t remember her name; she was my 3^rd grade teacher; she had one of those blond complicated braided bee-hive hairdos that looked so fake and it looked the same every day, so you knew it was fake. She wore tight, 2-piece suits, had long painted, red fingernails and lipstick to match. Me, and another kid drove her crazy. His name was Dale Binix. The only reason I remember this cat’s name is because my father thought “Binix” was the funniest thing he ever heard. Him thinking that was the funniest thing he ever heard, is the funniest thing I ever heard. The Wallaces are truly batshit insane.

Our stupid teacher had given us an assignment that must have been genuinely asinine, because he wrote his answers in Sanskrit or Elvish or something and I signed mine “Louise.” No first or last name. I guess I was running undercover that day. Up until then, I had forgotten the second part of my name. Not a middle name, per se. I’m MaryLouise. A couple of other kids in the class performed some kind of Civil Disobedience, but I forget what they did, in the hurly-burly of our transgressions, Binix and I. I think she put us in equivalent of the schoolyard square stocks and let the 4^th-graders throw rocks at us. Yes, I went to school in the Middle Ages.

Anyway, Teach didn’t appreciate Sanskrit Boy and she didn’t like my undercover gig. I hated her, and pretty much let her know in any way possible. When I hit her, She backed off. She did not tell my parents, because, when I would go home after the school boxing matches, we all put on this dumb show: Ma would patch me up and say loudly, “Mary, I’ve told you a million times, not to fight. Oh, and also, not to exaggerate.” Then she’d whisper, “Did you start it?” I’d shake my head. “No, Ma.” It’s the one time I wouldn’t lie to her. “Good. Did you win?” “Yeah, Ma, I did.” She congratulated me. Shook my hand. Then, we went through the same routine with Daddy. My parents taught me that if provoked, you fought back, and you made them pay. If they came back for the refresher course, it was worse. 

So, maybe I’m well suited to be an advocate in the here and now for people who are bullied. It’s stunning to me that people bully. Part of me was a sad thing for a long time. The same person who taught me to fight if I was attacked verbally or physically, was herself verbally abused as a girl and in turn, heaped tons of scorn and capricious cruelties on me. She thought I needed protecting and tried to guide me in a way I did not want to go. I knew what I wanted, but it made for a very bitter household for a number of years. I understand that know and the fact that we were so very close when she died we can both count as a triumph. She never really understood me until the last years of her life and when she did, then she knew who I was and loved me for me; not as some construct, she had made in her head. The sad fact is, my father always knew who I was and love me for me. 

She sensed it and was jealous and thought I loved him better. I didn't. I just knew in my child-like way, that he understood me and she didn't.  I can truly look past all that and thank God I could when she was alive. She so deserved to be loved for herself. Gallant and brave, caring and passionate; she lost that jealousy and I saw person I always knew my mother to be. Mommy issues? No, not at all. She was just the best.

#ROW80 POST 17 Wednesday Check in - Tigers and Giants

Well, I wrote what I thought were 2 really killer posts, then I got to today and was supposed to write about goals. The goal fairy, alas, did not materialize, AGAIN. At least in one category, pulling together material for my self-published “biography.” That one’s just laying there like the proverbial lead balloon. NaNoWriMo is starting to germinate, already, though. Cool.

On the physical front, I’ve gained 5 lbs. up from 100 to 105. I must keep stuffing anything that doesn’t walk or isn’t all maggoty, down my craw. Still doing the weird sensory thing, and night terrors, odd perceptions, sleep-talking; a regular 3-ring circus. At least, I haven’t punched myself in the beezer. JC told me he had a dream once, where he ran into a tree. He woke up very abruptly, as he’d punched himself in the nose. 

There was that time I dreamed that JC took a stick and pushed my big toe straight up and it hit me under the chin. I woke up, hollering “Damn it! Don’t do that!” He’d skipped off out of the house and was all the way down at the Sweetbay market, so he didn’t hear me. Boy, does he move fast for a 65-year old man! On that note, I signed up for the National Parkinson's Foundation Webinar, so I have more information as ammo for that neuro Dr. If that doesn't work, I will tie his shoelaces together and steal all those rubber gloves. Hee.

Night terrors, or "sundowning" as it's now called. Whatever the term; it's dismaying. I always loved the night. I was a creature of it. My blue eyes worked better at night and it's certainly better for my skin. But lately I don’t. I’ve been fighting sleep and am back up to staying up to 4 am. I had started going to bed around 10 or 11 pm, but as my “PD or non-PD” symptoms have worsened, I hate the night, but perversely, I won’t sleep. I’m up until 4 am, all anxiety and rage. I have medicine to counteract all of those things, and will take it, and then, fight the sleep. This is stupid and dangerous; I fall asleep in my chair. 

JC says he woke up and I was talking to “Angel” the vampire with a soul, on my computer monitor and was dead asleep. Wearing headphones. JC told me to go to bed; I took off my headphones and went to bed. Gah! New plan. Take the stuff for anxiety, then take the sleep stuff when I lay down. And LAY DOWN, for God’s sake at a decent hour, not 12 days later. That’s what got my happy ass committed last time.

Anyway, it’s Viola v. Viola. Sorta. My FB friend, Viola Weinberg Spencer writes poetry, which you can read here. She is a huge San Francisco Giants fan, and she lives in Northern California. Being ViolaFury, and from Detroit, we’re both excited Violas! Viola is an elegant and wonderful lady. She’s classy and everything I am not. I love her to death. Imagine my surprise and delight to discover that she is a Giants fan and adores baseball.

I also have a Runescape friend named Steve. In game, he’s SergioRomeo. Steve has been a very committed GAINTS fan since I’ve known him, for over 5 years. He’s a GAINTS fan. We’re all GAINTS fans in our Clan. The reason we’re so, is because our Clan founder was dyslexic or couldn’t type and he said “GO GAINTS!” one year. The CC exploded, with lots of disrespectful: “way to go, it’s G-I-A-N-T-S, JZ! Ha Ha”… “Jeeze, my dog could type better than that.”

The ribbing was tame because 1) JZ, our founder, though young, was respected and very dignified and 2) there was a censor, and there was no swearing or anything sexual allowed, because 10 year olds might be offended. The fact that you were supposed to be at least 13 to play was lost on the Gower brothers (creators of RS) but hey, that’s RS.

Whoever wins the World Series is okay with me. In the Spirit of Competition, if I want to douse this in the fabled Gabe Zaldivar of b/r lame-sauce, I could say “Go Tigers.” How about “Go Giants.” I really don’t care. A repeat for the Giants is good. The 1984 Tigers are legendary. Jim Leland, if he wins with the Tigers, will have repeated with the Tigers what Sparky Anderson did with the Tigers in 1984, by winning a World Series Title in both the NL and AL. That’s synchronicity, right there. That’s cool. My late father was a huge Giants fan, as are my dear friends. It’s all good. This is heaven; some competitor I am.

2012 SF Giants Clinch the NLC Pennant, beating the SL Cardinals.